Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  “Is that Nora? Give me the phone.” He held out his hand, clearly unconvinced that Quinn would comply.

  She didn’t. Quinn wasn’t a very good liar, but this one came to her lips easily enough. “It’s my mom. She’s mad that I’ve been opening the windows.”

  Walker gave her a long look but let it go. “Is that why she came by this morning? To complain about the windows?”

  Quinn lifted one shoulder as if to say “I guess so,” and slipped her phone into the back pocket of her shorts. She wanted to respond to Nora—even better, to tap the little icon of a telephone that would ring her sister. They needed to talk. But now wasn’t the time. Not with Walker around. And certainly not with Lucy curled up in a ball in the corner of the bedroom where she had slept. After using the bathroom earlier that morning, she had scurried back to the room just off the kitchen and hid in the farthest corner. As if Quinn and Walker were terrifying, dangerous people. As if they intended to hurt her.

  It made Quinn shiver. What would make a child react like that? What had happened to her? Quinn couldn’t bring herself to think about specifics; instead her heart blistered at the heat and color and suggestion of unknown violence. Of terror.

  Her niece. If Walker was right, Lucy was her niece. Nora’s daughter. That meant Quinn was an aunt. She kept turning the word over in her mind, shaking it out like a garment that didn’t quite fit and then trying it on again. A part of her felt stupid that she hadn’t put the pieces together herself. It was true, Lucy bore some similarities to Nora. She was lean and angular, even at such a young age. And she had those distinctive Sanford eyes. But really, that didn’t mean much. Quinn knew that her sister’s eyes changed color depending on the weather, a shift in emotion, or the hue of the shirt she was wearing. Lucy’s were equally indeterminate. Gray blue, green, hazel, even lavender. How was Quinn to know?

  Oh God. The implications were unthinkable.

  Quinn swallowed hard and forced herself to bend over the king-sized bed where she and Walker had been curled up only hours before. It felt ridiculous to focus on the details, but it was all she knew to do. As she untangled the flat sheet from the quilt, she wished she could rewind the day, start over and find a better way to break the news of Lucy to Walker. A way that wouldn’t end with them at odds.

  In the midst of this firestorm Quinn needed him beside her. But her husband’s disapproval was a palpable thing—it came off him like steam and enveloped her in a cloud of guilt. Never mind that Nora was the one who should feel guilty. How could she? How could she drop a bomb like this in the middle of their lives? Nora had no idea of the havoc she had wrought.

  Quinn surprised herself by wishing Walker would go back to the boathouse and leave her alone. She needed to think. To come up with a way to force her sister’s hand. But then she heard the metallic snitch of his zipper and Walker took the other side of the sheet she was holding.

  They made the bed together in silence, and Walker even went so far as to position the many throw pillows just the way Liz had shown them when they first toured the cabin. It was a peace offering of sorts, and when they were done Quinn met him at the end of the bed and buried her face in his chest. Walker’s arms went around her slowly.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s just a bed.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.”

  Walker put his hands on her shoulders and pushed Quinn gently away so he could see her face. “I need you to know that I hate this.”

  “I know,” Quinn whispered. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “It’s crazy. Like, crazy crazy. And dangerous. Something is going on here.”

  “But it’s Nora,” Quinn said helplessly. “And if you’re right—”

  “I’m right.”

  “Lucy is family,” Quinn finished.

  “I know. But there’s more to the story, Q.” Walker was shaking his head. “And right now this isn’t about Nora. She’s not even here. We have to think about Lucy. She’s not okay.”

  “Who is her father?” Quinn whispered, voicing the question that had lodged like a burr in her mind. It had kept her up most of the night, tossing and turning and nursing worries like a wound.

  “Some guy.” Walker shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Quinn was taken aback. After all their talks about starting a family, his casual dismissal of Lucy’s father felt unusually callous. But before she could protest, Quinn watched her husband realize his mistake.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Walker said, holding up his hands in defense. “Of course it matters. But clearly the father is not involved. We can worry about him later.”

  “Maybe he’s the reason Nora is being so secretive,” Quinn said, choosing to ignore her husband’s blunder. “What is she hiding? And—”

  Walker cut Quinn off with a sudden, slicing gesture to his throat and she became aware of a presence that hadn’t been there before. They had been talking in generalities, and suddenly the very real object of their concern was hovering in the doorframe, regarding them suspiciously. She clutched the car blanket to her chest.

  “Hey,” Quinn said softly, pushing away from Walker as if they had been caught doing something private. In a way, they had. “How are you doing, honey?”

  Lucy didn’t answer, or acknowledge that she had heard her at all.

  Quinn glanced at Walker, but he was giving the girl his warmest smile. Only Quinn could tell it was a bit crooked. She loved him just a little more for putting aside his own feelings to show Lucy kindness.

  “Did you get good sleep?” Quinn fumbled, trying again to get something, anything out of Lucy.

  “She’s hungry,” Walker said. “I can tell by the look on her face.”

  Lucy had refused offers of cereal and toast, pancakes and eggs. Even the cup of freshly squeezed orange juice that Quinn had set on the night table beside her went untouched. At least, it had been untouched the last time Quinn checked.

  But of course she was starving. She had to be.

  “Pancakes?” Quinn asked, repeating the menu she had offered earlier. “Eggs and toast?” Her mind was spinning in a dozen different directions as she watched the unkempt little girl. It was obvious that breakfast was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to Lucy. She needed clothes and pajamas. A new pair of shoes. A toothbrush. Something other than the ratty car blanket to cuddle. Fish sticks and french fries. Walker and Quinn stocked their fridge with organics and farmers market fare. The closest thing to a kid-friendly option in their cabinets was a tin of the chocolate Quinn favored. It was dark and laced with flakes of chili pepper.

  “How about some hot chocolate?” Quinn blurted. She had almond milk and Dutch-process cocoa powder. Surely she could concoct something warm and delicious from that. “And … blueberry muffins?”

  “Grilled cheese,” Walker said definitively. “Lucy loves grilled cheese. I can tell.”

  The child ignored his statement. But she did open her mouth. “I don’t know you,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and unused.

  Quinn’s throat tightened. She had wondered if Lucy could speak at all. The few husky words were a gift.

  “I don’t know you, either,” Walker said carefully. “But Quinn told me that your name is Lucy and that you’re going to stay with us for a while.”

  Lucy held her tongue.

  “Well,” Walker went on, “we sure are glad to have you. My name is Walker.”

  Nothing.

  Walker didn’t skip a beat. “How about it? Grilled cheese?”

  Lucy nodded once.

  “I’ve got this.” Quinn felt a twinge of jealousy at Walker’s easy way with Lucy and instantly hated herself for it. Embarrassed, she added, “Are you planning on working today?”

  “Leaving now.” He bent to give Quinn a kiss on the cheek. As he neared the bedroom door Lucy backed quickly away, recoiling from both his tender look and his outstretched hand. It was obvious that Walker had hoped to touch her in
some reassuring way, but Lucy would have none of it. To his credit, Walker let it go. “Quinn, can I talk to you a minute?” he called over his shoulder. The look he gave her was ripe with meaning.

  Quinn followed, shooting Lucy an apologetic look as she passed. But Lucy wasn’t paying any attention to her anyway. She was staring at the wall, her slender jaw set in a hard line. The irony of the situation—of being rejected so soundly by a child Quinn should know intimately and love completely—was just more salt in her already gaping wound.

  “What?” Quinn whispered as she joined Walker in the entryway, acutely aware of Lucy’s presence just around the corner.

  “Lock the door behind me.”

  “During the day? Are you serious? This is Key Lake, not California.” She didn’t tell him that growing up they hadn’t even known where the house key was. Even when the Sanfords went on vacation they left the garage door unlocked so that Macy could slip in to water their houseplants.

  “Don’t be so stubborn,” Walker said, gripping her shoulders a little tighter than strictly necessary. “If Nora told you to keep Lucy hidden, to keep her safe, she’s obviously protecting her from something. Or someone.”

  Quinn couldn’t help the tremor that passed through her. “Okay.”

  “And don’t answer calls from any number you don’t recognize.”

  “Walker …” she protested weakly.

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise. But …” She shrugged, dislodging his hands. “We don’t know what’s going on here.”

  “Exactly. And we’re not taking any chances. I have my phone. Call or text if you need anything at all and I’ll be here in ten seconds flat.” Walker pressed a kiss to her cheek and then brushed the spot with the back of his knuckles as if to wipe the evidence away. “I love you.”

  Quinn squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment after Walker was gone. Her heart felt like a battleground—and the fight was far from over. But she couldn’t think about any of that now. There was a child who needed her.

  Reaching for the door handle, Quinn set the lock with a definitive click. She couldn’t decide if she was locking the proverbial bad guys out or locking herself and Lucy in. Neither thought was very comforting.

  Lucy was still in the hallway where Quinn had left her. Still staring at the wall. Quinn knelt down to her eye level and gave Lucy what she hoped was a genuine smile. “Do you remember me? I’m Quinn, Nora’s sister …” She faltered.

  Lucy didn’t answer and she wouldn’t look at Quinn. But she did wander over to the long kitchen counter. She climbed onto a stool, gaze still stubbornly fixed on her feet, the blanket, anything and everything but Quinn.

  Giving up for the moment, Quinn strode to the kitchen and turned her attention to finding something she could feed a child. There was Gouda and some leftover focaccia, a far cry from white bread and processed cheese, but it would have to do. She set the ingredients out on the counter and then pulled a saucepan from the cabinet beside the stove. She set it on a burner and poured in some milk, adding a couple tablespoons of cocoa powder and an equal amount of raw sugar. When it was simmering, she tipped in a dash of vanilla and gave it a quick whisk. She sipped a bit of her homemade concoction from a teaspoon. It was good. Not exactly Swiss Miss, but wasn’t that the point?

  There wasn’t much Gouda left, so Quinn shredded it and spread two slices of focaccia with salted butter on one side and a thin layer of Neufchâtel cheese on the other. The butter side went down in a frying pan and she sprinkled Gouda on top of the cream cheese. Two more fat slabs of bread on top, then she left it to melt.

  Quinn poured the mugs full of steaming hot chocolate and gave them a stir. Lifting two plates out of the cupboard, she set them on the counter and turned a bubbly sandwich onto each. She put one in front of Lucy. Thinking better of it, she grabbed a knife and halved one sandwich, then quartered it so that the pieces were finger-food sized. Just right for little hands.

  Or was she being patronizing? Quinn studied Lucy as the girl continued to determinedly avoid her gaze. She was so thin her collarbones poked from beneath the stained dress that hung off her slight frame. No baby fat to speak of, not even in her narrow face. Lucy was all brittle angles: sharp chin, jutting elbows, ears pointed at the tips as if she were a fairy. No, a changeling, a sprite left in the place of a child. Maybe she was older than she looked. Seven? Eight? As Quinn watched, Lucy snuck a quick peek at her benefactor. She looked down, but Quinn had caught her gaze. Lucy’s eyes were blue or hazel or gray, strange and bottomless. The eyes of someone who had been forced to grow up too fast. Nora’s eyes.

  Quinn tucked her hair behind her ears and struggled for something to say around the lump in her throat. “Can I help you with your blanket?” she finally asked. “We can put it over the couch while you eat.”

  Lucy didn’t respond, but she let the blanket drop to the ground. She sat with her hands in her lap, head bowed over the food that Quinn had placed before her. Shouldn’t she be devouring it? How long had it been since she had last eaten?

  “It’s not too hot,” Quinn encouraged her. “I think it should be just right.”

  Lucy didn’t move.

  Exhaling loudly, Quinn bent over the counter and put her chin in her hand. “What can I do for you, Lucy?”

  Seconds ticked by and Quinn felt tears sting her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was upset because of the situation or because there was a cocktail of manufactured hormones running through her veins. She was mad at Nora, arguing with Walker, and perplexed by Lucy. Still coming to terms with the fact that the child before her may very well be her flesh and blood. She couldn’t begin to mine that unnerving thought. Of course, she was also frustrated by Liz’s unexpected intrusion, saddened by her own discouraging situation, and troubled by the fact that the front door was locked against the unknown. The list went on, and that scared her more than anything.

  Quinn blinked hard and straightened. “Okay,” she said. “You don’t have to eat, but I’m certainly going to.”

  She yanked open the fridge and grabbed the one guilty indulgence that had survived her clean-eating purge. Walker teased her about it all the time, but Quinn didn’t care. She could get into quinoa and flaxseed and green smoothies, but nothing could make her give up ketchup. Squirting a big dollop of it on the edge of her plate, Quinn picked up her gourmet grilled cheese sandwich and dredged it through the sauce.

  Lucy kept her eyes hidden behind thick lashes, her face angled more at the countertop than Quinn.

  It was hard not to be the tiniest bit angry.

  Wrong emotion and Quinn knew it, but she was trying. She was trying so hard. She felt helpless and inadequate. Like a complete and utter failure. And Lucy’s silence was downright oppressive. Quinn heaved a sigh and popped the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth sloppily. A dab of ketchup missed the mark and began to slip down her chin. Quinn could only imagine what she looked like. A petulant child herself. She reached for a napkin and then stopped. This was whimsical, right? Childlike? Maybe it would make Lucy laugh? Maybe … ?

  “Look what I’ve done!” Quinn forced herself to laugh a little, but it came out hollow and insincere.

  All the same, Lucy couldn’t help it. She peeked up.

  But when she saw the mess that Quinn had made of herself, the trail of red that ran from lip to chin, Lucy didn’t laugh.

  She screamed.

  NORA

  THE PARKING LOT was empty at the Grind when Nora pulled up at nearly 10:00 a.m., which meant that the morning rush was already over. There would be a lull for a quarter hour or so, a handful of drive-through customers as they waited for the young mothers’ crowd to start trickling in after the top of the hour.

  Nora pressed her lips into a thin line and squeezed the steering wheel until her wrists ached. Everlee was so far away (three hours!) Nora could feel the distance in her bones. And Tiffany was … where? Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. Nora was being choked by her blouse and she reached with num
b fingers to undo the top button. But it was already undone. She floundered for a moment, fingers at her throat.

  There was nothing okay about their current situation. It felt so wrong to be traipsing into the Grind as if all was right in the world, but what choice did she have? She was anxious and angry, edgy and—if she was honest with herself—scared. But she had to behave as if nothing was amiss. Normal, she told herself. Just act normal.

  Ethan was rearranging chairs and restocking the napkins when Nora slipped in the back door. If she knew him as well as she thought she did, he had also pulled a test shot for her and adjusted the espresso machine after the early crowd. Nora hated to admit it, but Ethan made better coffee than she did. Even though he was just her assistant manager and she had more experience and a bigger paycheck.

  “Hey,” Nora called as she tucked her wallet into a desk nook in the back room. The wide swinging door between the office/kitchen combo and the coffee shop was propped open with a five-gallon bucket half-filled with used grounds, and she saw Ethan nod a hello. She forced herself to say: “Thanks for covering for me this morning. Everything go okay?”

  Ethan pointed to a cup of steaming coffee that he had set on the front counter. He must have made it when he saw her car drive into the lot. Nora knew it was an Italian-style cappuccino, no flavoring, with a thick layer of foam and a light dusting of cinnamon, just the way she liked it. “It’s going to be a good day for a coffee,” he said. No mention of the fact that he had single-handedly kept the store running since six. He wasn’t the type to keep score. “You look fantastic, by the way.”

  Nora glanced down and realized that she was still wearing the pencil skirt and heels, the shiny blouse. It was all completely inappropriate for a coffeehouse. And ridiculously un-her. She had a change of clothes in the back seat of her car, but when Tiffany disappeared she had forgotten all about the blue jeans and vintage Guns N’ Roses concert tee. The worn, comfy tennis shoes.